


(don’t keep your heart) hidden away

by MurmuredLullabye



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Friends to Lovers, Gen, M/M, Mental health issues & related ableism, Slow Burn, Social Media
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-08-06 00:12:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16377737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MurmuredLullabye/pseuds/MurmuredLullabye
Summary: While preparing to finally move up to the senior circuit, Yuuri is given the opportunity of a lifetime: an invitation to train in Russia under the legendary Yakov Feltsman. When he accepts, he's determined to remain professional - meaning that under absolutely no circumstances is he allowed to give any sign of his childhood crush on Victor Nikiforov. Unfortunately, that becomes a lot harder than it should be when Victor refuses to leave him alone.





	1. Chapter 1

To: Lilia Leovna Baranovskaya <llbaranovskaya@mariinsky.ru>

From: Okukawa Minako <okukawadance@gmail.com>

Subject: Figure skating inquiry

Madame Baranovskaya,

I found some video of the Mariinsky’s October Class Concert performance (your new dancers are lovely, by the way), and when I saw you listed as one of the ballet masters I remembered my time studying under you back in Paris. I recall you mentioning that you had married a figure skating coach back in Russia, and I was hoping you might have some recommendations for my current predicament.

I have been choreographing for and co-coaching a junior men’s figure skater from my hometown for the past decade, but we are having some trouble finding a proper coach and facilities for his senior debut. We had an offer from Fujiwara Ichiro, but it was withdrawn - something about being too busy with Mr. Takahashi’s Olympics season. Any suggestions for people I might get in contact with would be extremely helpful. Below are links to videos of some of his practices and performances.

[link - Katsuki Yuuri tries Bourne’s Swan Lake] 

[link - Compulsory figures in Hasetsu Ice Castle!!] 

[link - Katsuki Yuuri 2008 SP “Lohengrin”] 

[link - Japan’s Junior Ace prepares his 2009 FS] 

[link - Katsuki Yuuri 2009 JGPF] 

[link - PRIVATE - Spread eagle 3A practice] 

With gratitude,

Minako Okukawa

  
  


To: Okukawa Minako <okukawadance@gmail.com>

From: Lilia Leovna Baranovskaya <llbaranovskaya@mariinsky.ru>

Subject: Re: Figure skating inquiry

Minako,

It’s good to see that you haven’t let your skill go to waste. Your student has potential. I will get back to you after I make some inquiries.

Sincerely,

Lilia Baranovskaya

 

Choreographer

Mariinsky Ballet

Benois de la Danse - Lifetime Achievement (2003)

Benois de la Danse - Ballerina (1992)

  
  


To: Yakov Feltsman <yfeltsman@championskateclub.ru>

From: Lilia Leovna Baranovskaya <llbaranovskaya@mariinsky.ru>

Subject: Fwd: Figure skating inquiry

Yakov,

Take a look at this boy. This is what a skater with a proper understanding of dance looks like.

\---Forwarded message---

  
  


To: Okukawa Minako <okukawadance@gmail.com>

From: Yakov Feltsman <yfeltsman@championskateclub.ru>

CC: Lilia Leovna Baranovskaya <llbaranovskaya@mariinsky.ru>, Natalia Karikova <nkarikova@championskateclub.ru>

Subject: Coaching

Dear Ms. Okukawa,

Lilia forwarded me your email about Yuuri Katsuki. I am willing to offer a year-long contract for the coming season and his senior debut, with a subsequent long-term contract being contingent on his progress. I have attached the proposed contract and copied Ms. Karikova, who will be Katsuki’s manager should he accept. Let me know what your decision is after Junior Worlds. If he accepts, he will need some time to settle in to St. Petersburg before he begins training. Sooner is better, if possible.

Sincerely,

Yakov Feltsman

 

Head Coach

Champions Skate Club

  


To: Katsuki Yuuri <katsudony@gmail.com>

From: Okukawa Minako <okukawadance@gmail.com>

Subject: Fwd: Coaching

HOLY SHIT YUURI!!!

\---Forwarded Message---  


* * *

 

Yuuri had originally jammed his earbuds in and turned on his music after beginning his stretches as an excuse to avoid looking at the other skaters’ performances. Some of the boys who had finished their free programs earlier milled about, chatting to one another and their coaches, but Yuuri just wanted to be left alone. They always wanted to talk about how they’d done, what Yuuri thought of their performances, his predictions for the competition. At a competition those were topics he avoided like the plague. Yuuri had plenty of worries without voicing them out loud and feeding them with conversation. Normally, the idea opening an email with the word ‘coaching’ in the subject line would’ve been terrifying enough for him to avoid it for a week, but right now he’d take any distraction he could get. He’d expected a short note about making contact with a potential coach, or maybe, if he dared hope for it, something about Fujiwara reconsidering. Not…this.

He gave up the pretense of focusing on his stretches to read Minako’s email in full for a second time. None of the words changed. Yuuri pinched the back of his hand, digging his nails in until it hurt enough that he worried about breaking the skin. You weren’t supposed to feel pain when you were dreaming, right?

He read the email chain for a third time. It was still there. But - really, Yakov Feltsman wanting to coach him, of all people? Impossible. Ridiculous. Fujiwara had turned him down for a reason.

“Yuuri-kun?”

At the sound of Sayako’s voice, Yuuri looked up at his coach, guiltily stuffing his phone into his jacket pocket. “Um,” he began, then stopped. He should be stretching, not staring at his phone.

Instead of scolding him, she just looked concerned. “What is it?”

Yuuri cringed. “I - ah…” Even in his head, it sounded ridiculous. “Minako-sensei sent me an email saying - um, Yakov Feltsman wants to coach me?”

She would’ve been completely justified in laughing at the idea, but Sayako only stared at him for a moment before breaking into a wide smile.  “That’s fantastic! I knew you’d be able to find someone, but - Yakov Feltsman!”

Yuuri let out a nervous laugh, something hot and uncomfortable churning in his gut. It was too good to be true. What if he bombed his free skate, and Yakov realized that it would be a massive mistake to take Yuuri on? There were so many places where he could mess up - there weren’t any quads in Yuuri’s program, but his salchow had always been weak, and he had two combos planned. His triples were good, better than they’d ever been, but still—

Sayako glanced at something over his shoulder and said, “It’s almost your turn. We should get to the rink.”

He gave her a shaky nod and followed her back to the rink. Yuuri took off his jacket, revealing his free skate costume, a dark blue vest decorated with rhinestones over a plain white shirt. By the time he took off his skate protectors and handed them to Sayako, the previous skater had already left the ice for the kiss and cry. The roar of the crowd was deafening. Yuuri had somehow made it to Junior Worlds last year, too, but he was still unprepared for the presence of such a large audience. If he failed here, it wasn’t just Yakov’s opinion he’d have to worry about; the entire world was watching.

Yuuri was in third after the short program. Sayako thought he had a chance for gold if he skated well. One of the best coaches in the world had sent him a contract. Depending on the outcome of this performance, he would embarrass himself in front of the entire world or set himself up for a strong senior debut next season. Yuuri stepped on to the ice and tried to slow his breathing.

When he turned to face Sayako, she reached out and gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You’ve worked hard for this, and I’m so proud. I know you can do this, and so does Minako, and everyone back in Hasetsu - and Yakov Feltsman, apparently. Forget the crowd. Just listen to the music and dance.”

She’d done so much for him. Everyone back home had. His family, who’d always supported him. Minako, who taught him even after he began to focus on the ice instead of the barre. Yuuko, his first friend, and the one who’d introduced him to Sayako, her mother. Sayako herself, who had coached him from the first time he put on a battered pair of rental skates. Yuuri desperately wanted to believe that everything they’d given him had been worth it.

“Yes, coach,” he mumbled around the knot of emotion in his throat as he took off his glasses and handed them over. He exhaled slowly, then pushed off from the boards and began his lap around the rink. A cheer rose up from the crowd, and - not for the first time - Yuuri was incredibly grateful for his poor eyesight. Without his glasses, the hundreds of people in the stands were just blurs, indistinct enough that he might be able to forget about them and lose himself in the music and the execution of his program.

The announcer’s voice echoed through the arena. “Up next, Yuuri Katsuki, representing Japan.”

Yuuri took up his starting pose, right leg crossed behind his left, balanced on the toe pick, gaze focused up at the ceiling, arms held out in front of him, grasping for something just out of reach.

His music for this season’s free skate was an arrangement of Rachmaninoff’s second piano concerto, and while it wasn’t as heavy as a lot of the composer’s work, it still carried an intensity that drew Yuuri’s attention back in the spring when he’d been figuring out his programs. When he’d first heard it, he thought of hope, a goal completed - but most importantly, the struggle it took to get there. This program had taken him far; this season was his best by a significant margin. He’d won bronze and gold in his Junior Grand Prix qualifiers, silver in the final, and then gold in junior nationals. For over a decade, Yuuri had poured every spare moment of his time into his skating and paid for his hard-won skill with sweat, bruises, and tears. The idea of coming so far just to falter and let down all the people who believed he succeed terrified him, but for once, it didn’t completely quench his greed for the gold medal.

Minako’s choreography emphasized the piece’s strong beginning, building up to a triple lutz, triple toe combination. Yuuri threw everything he had into it. His longing and ambition and even his fear became fuel for the fire that built with the piano at the center of this arrangement. Yuuri flew across the ice - step sequence, another jump, sit spin - and burned with how desperately he wanted to succeed.

Triple axel. Twizzle into an outside edge spread eagle.

The music slowed into something more contemplative as he began his main choreographic sequence. If the first part of this piece was the struggle for victory, this was the part where doubt began to seep in. The protagonist tired of reaching and yet never quite achieving his goal, so they retreated, tried to pull back and pretend that it didn’t really matter that much. But it was a paper-thin lie, flimsy and easily shredded by reality. Yuuri didn’t know if he could win, but that couldn’t stop him from wanting it so badly that he ached.

Another jump combo to mark the transition between retreat and a return to the chase. Yuuri could feel the physical toll of the program in the sweat at the back of his neck and the burn in his thighs, but he wasn’t done yet, and he refused to let a little bit of exhaustion affect his performance. One more jump—

He landed the triple loop cleanly and skated to the center of the rink. Combination spin. The music came to an end in a triumphant flurry of notes as Yuuri slipped into his ending pose, chest heaving with exertion. A dull roar filled his ears, and for a moment he thought it was the thundering of his own heartbeat, until he realized that even without his glasses, he could make out the blurred outlines of audience members standing up as they clapped and cheered. Flowers and even a few plushies rained down around him. Yuuri froze for a few seconds before he swallowed and gave the audience a low bow. He hadn’t fallen on any of his jumps, but he was pretty sure the last jump of his final combo had been a bit underrotated and his step sequence had gone by in a blur. But maybe he hadn’t done too badly?

Yuuri took a deep breath and skated back towards the boards, scooping up a bouquet of roses as he passed by. The first time he’d been at a performance big enough for the audience to throw him gifts, he hadn’t picked anything up, and he still remembered the blistering lecture Minako gave him once he left the arena.

Sayako gave him his glasses first, then his skate protectors. After he fastened them over his blades, she guided him over to the kiss and cry with a hand on his shoulder. Yuuri dropped down on the bench and glanced over as Sayako took a seat beside him. “Did I do okay?” he asked, hopefully quietly enough that it wouldn’t be picked up by the cameras.

Sayako stared at him, her eyes widening before she shook her head and smiled. “Okay? That was amazing. Maybe the best program you’ve ever performed. Unless the next skater breaks a record, you just won gold.”

He was grateful for her faith in him, but - “They haven’t given my scores out,” he said. It was too early to celebrate yet. And even then, there was still another competitor who had yet to skate his free.

Then his scores were released, and Yuuri stared at the numbers, disbelieving, until the announcer confirmed them.

“147.70! With a stunning performance, Katsuki has earned a new personal best and a world record in junior men’s singles!”

Oh.

He - he’d done well. Really well, actually.

 

* * *

  


**Peach @ Junior Worlds 2010**   _@phichit-chu_

!!!!! #YuuriKatsuki just broke the junior FS world record! #JWC2010 #YuuriForGold

 

 **Peach @ Junior Worlds 2010**   _@phichit-chu_

YES!! Congrats #YuuriKatsuki! You deserved it!!! #YuuriForGold #JWC2010

[image description: a picture of Yuuri on the podium with a gold medal around his neck taken from somewhere in the stands. There are tears in his eyes.]

 

* * *

 

**Japan’s Rising Star Claims Gold at Junior World Championships**

By Morooka Hisashi

 

**Christophe Giacometti's Junior Combined Score World Record Finally Broken**

By Amanda Riviera

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Yuuri flew home with a gold medal and an international title. He had no time to cover from the shock of his own success before being caught up in the whirlwind of preparations necessary for his move to Russia. There was so much to be done; he had to get a visa - only barely possible in the time he had, even with Yakov pulling some strings behind the scenes, pack everything he needed, finish finalizing the details of his correspondence courses with his university, and work with Konugi on the photoshoot they'd been after for months. One of Yakov's skaters was looking for a roommate, so at least housing wouldn't be a problem, but that was just one item on a very long to do list. All this while trying (and failing) not to think too much about how badly he was going to miss Hasetsu, and his family, and  _Vicchan._ But somehow, after two months and a few gallons of tears from Yuuri and his parents, everything was done. He was leaving Japan, and aside from Nationals, there was no telling when he'd have the time to come back. Yuuri had always known there was a good chance he'd have to train under a coach abroad if he wanted to succeed in seniors, but that didn't make hugging his parents and Mari for the last time any easier. 

He spent the flight to St. Petersburg drifting between fitful sleep and fiddling with his DS. When he finally stepped off the plane and into Pulkovo airport, and saw the signs in Russian and English, Yuuri had to fight the irrational urge to turn around and demand that the airline fly him back to Japan immediately. What was he  _doing_ here? His English was good, but he wasn't a native speaker, and he only knew a few words in Russian. What was going to happen when he inevitably ran into someone who only spoke Russian? Did all of his rinkmates speak English? Yakov did, of course, and so did Victor Nikiforov (and oh god, there was another thing to worry about - what if he embarrassed himself in front of Victor?), but surely the skate club had at least a couple members in the junior circuit. And...groceries.  _Restaurants._ Coffee. Maybe he would just avoid going out in public for the next two years, until he could at least order food without embarrassing himself. That sounded like a good idea. 

Someone just behind Yuuri said something in Russian, the sharp flow of their voice over the consonants startling him out of the chaotic spiral of his thoughts. He looked back, half-turning to face them more directly, and found himself face-to-face with a flight attendant. He stared at her blankly for a moment while she smiled politely. Was he in the way?

Then, in accented English, she asked, "Do you need help?"

Oh no. He'd been worrying for so long that someone had actually  _noticed._ How embarrassing. Yuuri frantically waved his hands and stuttered out, "No, no! Sorry for bothering you! I'll just, um - I'll just...go? Yes. To get my bag. Uh."  

The woman just blinked at him. Before Yuuri could self-combust out of sheer incompetence, he picked a random direction and began to walk like he actually knew where he was going. Of course, when he finally looked up at the signs, he discovered passport control was in the opposite direction. Yuuri hunched his shoulders and desperately hoped nobody notice him as he abruptly turned around. Somehow, he managed to avoid bumping into anyone before he got into line. He fidgeted and worried his way through the half hour he spent waiting and then felt extremely stupid for it when his interview with the agent lasted fifteen minutes and consisted entirely of what sounded like questions from a sheet of paper repeated on a thousand people before Yuuri. He picked up his suitcase and preceded through customs before he found himself in the arrivals lounge, clutching at the straps of his backpack as he looked over the small crowd waiting to pick up their family and friends. 

The roommate Yakov had arranged for him - and the only other international skater at the Sports Champions Skate Club - was supposed to be here, but where...ah. His gaze caught on a woman in sportswear leaning against one of the support pillars, holding up a sheet of paper with YUURI KATSUKI written on it in English. Her short, dark hair and purple jacket matched the description she'd emailed him before his flight. This had to be Rebecca Meltzer, Canada's best skater in Women's singles, and his new roommate. She straightened up as Yuuri approached and waved in his direction. He managed to summon up a weak smile in return. 

Once he drew closer, Rebecca dropped the sign to her side and held out a hand. Yuuri clasped it, tried not to worry about how sweaty his palms might be, and shook it quickly before withdrawing. 

"Yuuri, right?"

He nodded. "Um, yeah. Rebecca?"

She smiled. "Yup. You're probably tired, right? Come on, let's get your stuff in the car." 

Yuuri mumbled his thanks and followed her outside into the chilly morning air. 

"I was a bit worried when you never texted me after I emailed you my number, so I'm glad you showed up," Rebecca said as she led the way towards the parking complex. 

Oh. He hadn't realized. Yuuri winced. "Sorry. I didn't want to bother you."

Rebecca snorted. "Well, if  _that_ made you worry about bugging me, I guess I was lucky to snag you as a roommate. Relax. As long as you don't play rock music at one in the morning, we'll get along fine." 

"That won't be a problem!" Yuuri said, aghast. 

"Good! You're already better than Mikhail. I was so glad when he announced he was retiring after Vancouver. Decent skater, terrible roommate. Thanks for having more sense than him."

"...You're welcome?" he said weakly. 

Rebecca glanced back at him, grinning, and continued, "A couple of your boxes have already arrived. I moved them up to your room, so you can unpack them whenever you want. Mikhail left the sheets and blankets for your bed, so you won't have to buy any, but I think he took all the pillows with him so you'll have to pick some up later..." 

She continued talking as they entered the parking complex and made their way to her car, only stopping for a brief moment to help him load his suitcase into the trunk. Yuuri expected her to immediately start talking as soon as he sat down in the passenger seat, but instead, she hesitated. 

"Sorry, I tend to ramble a bit," Rebecca said. 

That was maybe a bit of an understatement, but Yuuri just shrugged and tried to swallow a yawn. He didn't really mind, but he didn't have much to contribute, either. "It's okay." 

Once Rebecca started driving, her chatter picked up again as she listed off a couple street names and pointed out restaurants and shops and even a hair salon on their way to the apartment. Yuuri caught less than half of what she said, due in part to the way the unfamiliar shape of Russian names slipped from his memory and in part to his exhaustion. 

"Crap, I didn't - are you allergic to cats?"

Yuuri blinked. "No?"

Rebecca let out a short laugh. "Oh, good. I totally forgot to warn you about Biellmann. That's my cat - there was a joke about how he stretched as a kitten, and it kind of stuck." 

She watched him out of the corner of her eye as best she could while paying attention to the traffic lights. Waiting for a response. Yuuri shifted uncomfortably in his seat and said, "Okay," for lack of any better response. 

Returning her attention to the vehicle, Rebecca tossed out a random fact about the Neva river, something about trams in the winter, and from there went to describing the rink's location right next to the river and its facilites (extensive: it included multiple dance studios, weight rooms, and lockers for all members of the skate club). She eventually parked in front of an apartment complex and popped the trunk as they stepped out so Yuuri could grab his things. 

She waited for him by the glass double doors that led to the lobby and, when he approached, held out a key for him. "Here's your copy. We're on the third floor, apartment 304."

Yuuri nodded and took the key, tucking it into his jacket pocket. Rebecca pushed the doors open and strode to the elevators at the back of the room, Yuuri just behind her. It didn't take long for an elevator to appear and then deposit them on their floor, where Rebecca showed him the way to their apartment. She said something about laundry facilities as she unlocked the door, but it barely registered. Once she pointed him in the direction of his room, he stumbled towards it, dragging his suitcase behind him. Yuuri closed the door, kicked off his shoes, dropped his backpack on the floor, chucked his glasses on to the window sill, and promptly collapsed onto the bed to sleep. 

 

* * *

 

Between Yuuri's lack of useful Russian vocabulary and his unfamiliarity with St. Petersburg, negotiating his way through the metro and to the rink took a lot longer than it probably should have, but thankfully he'd left early and so still arrived with a couple of minutes to spare. When he passed through the lobby and stepped into the rink, cold air hitting his face, Yuuri could almost pretend he was home. Despite its international fame, Yakov's rink was surprisingly plain; there were only a few decorations on the concrete walls and the rink itself had no stands for an audience. It was empty today, and in his sweatpants and Mizuno jacket, skate bag slung over his shoulder, it reminded him of the hours he'd spent at the Ice Castle, carving figures into the ice or practicing his jumps until his legs burned. 

His quiet moment of nostalgia crumpled under the sound of a set of heavy footsteps on concrete entering the rink. Yuuri looked back at the door he’d just come through and immediately recognized Yakov Feltsman’s weathered face.

“Katsuki?” he asked gruffly.

“Yes, sir,” Yuuri replied, and only barely remembered that westerners didn’t bow in time to avoid embarrassing himself.

Yakov’s mouth remained pressed in a thin line as he watched him. Yuuri looked down and fidgeted with his sleeves. Finally, Yakov snorted. “Hmph. All right. Come, I’ll take you to the dance studio on the premises. Show me your usual warm-ups and we can start to discuss your season.”

Was that good? Bad? Had Yuuri already done something to earn his new coach’s disapproval? There was no way to tell. Yakov’s expression was stern, but not angry - like Minako when she corrected his form, maybe. 

“Hai!” Yuuri said, then flushed as soon as he realized what had come out of his mouth. It hadn’t even been five minutes and he’d already forgotten which language he was supposed to be using. “I mean, yes, Coach. Sorry.”

Yakov sighed and waved his words off. “Save your apologies for when you actually need them. This way.”

Yuuri began to nod but Yakov was already headed towards the doors that led out of the rink and to the rest of the building. Yuuri scurried after him as his new coach showed him to the studio just down the hallway. Yakov entered the room first, flicking on the light switch and illuminating the sets of mirrors that took up the entire back wall and wood flooring so pristine that Yuuri could probably eat off it. It wasn’t that Minako’s studio hadn’t been well-cared for, but it was lived in and worn in a way that this room wasn’t. There were no posters on the walls here, no reminders of the accolades of the people who danced on the floor; this was a place for work, and nothing more. Even Coach Fujiwara’s rink back in Yokohama had been more personalized, and he was easily as stern as Yakov.

…But then, maybe this was a good thing. It was Fujiwara’s interest in Yuuri as something other than a skater and his disapproval of what he found that led the man to refuse to take him on as a student. If Yakov didn’t care about his skaters outside of the rink, if Yuuri could hide his own weaknesses, maybe he really would have a better chance in Russia.

As soon as Yuuri set his skate bag down by the door, Yakov looked at him through narrowed eyes and demanded, “Begin.”

So Yuuri did. For the first few minutes, only the sound of his breathing and the rustling of his clothes as he stretched interrupted the quiet. Then, Yakov said, “You stretch like a dancer.”

It wasn’t a question, but somehow it demanded a reply anyway. “Ah…yes, sir. My mother knew my ballet instructor - Minako-sensei - back in high school, and both my sister and I started taking lessons from her very young. She didn’t stick with it, but I did. She did most of my choreography when I started skating too.”

“Hm. It shows. You’re flexible for a boy your age and your PCS is comparable to senior skaters. Your jumps…”

Thankfully, Yuuri’s position as he bent in half to touch his toes hid his grimace. “They’re not very good, I know,” he mumbled into his legs.

“Don't interrupt me, Katsuki. They’re not consistent,” Yakov corrected. “Your performance at Junior Worlds proved that you’re capable of landing all of your triples and combos. But if you want to continue competing at the Grand Prix and Worlds in the senior division, you’re going to need at least the quad toe.”

Yuuri nodded as he leaned back out of his stretch, mouth in a thin line. Eighteen, and the best he could manage was a triple-triple combo. Victor had debuted his first quad at sixteen in his first competition on the senior circuit. By now, he’d ratified the salchow and there were rumors that he was working on the quad flip as well. Every skater in men’s singles that medaled reliably at least had the toe, if not the salchow. Eighteen was already late to move up to seniors for people who wanted to make a career out of it, and without a quad…

“Normally I give my skaters a bit of a break for the first couple of months after the end of a season so they can relax and think about their music and choreography for their programs,” Yakov continued. “But if you’re going to land a quad toe before the end of the season, we need to start working now.”

Part of Yuuri quailed under the weight of Yakov’s expectations; they’d only had a few exchanges over email, and he’d already decided that Yuuri was supposed to land a quad within the year. But Yakov was one of the best. Of course he had high expectations. And by coming here, Yuuri had made a promise not to embarrass him with his performance. What would the rest of the world think if one of Yakov’s skaters wasn’t up to standard? What would his new rinkmates think? His family, who had given up so much in support of his competitive career? Would Yakov even keep him on if he couldn’t do it?

Probably not, and he couldn’t afford to mess up so badly that he lost his coach after only a year. Yuuri swallowed and mumbled, “Yes, Coach.”

“Arms,” Yakov said, and Yuuri stood to begin his upper body stretches.

“None of the other senior skaters at the club will be using the rink for the rest of the week, so you have something of a head start. I expect you here every day by eight. Warm ups, ice time, then lunch, and afternoons will alternate between off-ice training. Start thinking about your programs and themes. Bring your music to me when you have some ideas."

At that, Yuuri froze. “You aren’t going to pick for me?”

Yakov’s eyebrows crawled up his forehead and he looked at Yuuri as if he were a particularly foolish child. “I am your coach, not your mother. Who you will be on the ice, what you want to express - those are your decisions. You will never become a champion by relying on other people’s decisions. And I only train champions.”

Yuuri chewed on the inside of his cheek, but only nodded in response. It made sense that Victor Nikiforov’s coach made his skaters choose their own programs. Victor himself had choreographed all of his skating since his senior debut, and Yuuri had seen enough of Georgi Popovich’s skating to notice the honesty of the emotions he carried to the ice. He didn’t know Rebecca’s style at all, but maybe she carried a similar mindset.

But how had Yuuri caught his attention, then? Minako asked for his input, but she planned the details of all his programs for him. He’d never once suggested a music choice with the exception of a couple of exhibition skates, never mind something as important as an overarching theme for a season. But to reveal the cold terror in his stomach would be to admit to his inadequacies compared to the rest of Yakov’s skaters, and he couldn’t do that. Maybe it was wrong of him to pretend to be better than he was, but he wanted to compete, to win, so badly. So all he said was, “Okay.”

Yakov eyed him critically for a moment. “Are you ever going to reply to me with more than three words at a time?”

A low, choked noise caught in Yuuri’s throat as heat crept up the back of his neck and to the tips of his ears. He’d always tried to be careful with his words around strangers, but never had anyone commented on it so bluntly. “I - right - yes! Sorry!”

Yakov snorted out something that might have been a chuckle, but Yuuri wasn’t willing to count on it. “Keep stretching. I’ll let you know when you can put on your skates.”

He continued through the process ingrained into his muscles after years of repeating it, but he couldn’t help but worry as he mechanically carried out the exercises. Yakov didn’t seem to care about his…quirks (yet) but it hadn't even been a day, and he’d clearly at least noticed _something_ , even if he’d remained focused on skating. Maybe he wouldn't care, as long as Yuuri could perform well on the ice? But that was a big if. 

Yakov didn’t initiate another conversation through the rest of Yuuri’s warm-up, only speaking up to correct his position or suggest an exercise that wasn’t part of his usual regime.

“Well,” Yakov said once he finished, “at least you listen.”

Yuuri froze. “Um, thanks?"

Yuuri nodded and hastily picked up his skate bag as Yakov walked away without waiting for a reply. By the time Yuuri made it to the rink and laced up his skates, Yakov was already standing on the center of the ice, arms crossed, waiting for Yuuri to join him. If today was a test, then this would be the most heavily weighted portion. He had to do well, had to show Yakov that he had made the right decision by offering to coach Yuuri. Figures - figures, he could do, and do well. It was the jumps that Yakov would surely ask him to present that worried him.

Inhale. Count to five. Exhale. Yuuri took off his skate guards and glasses and stepped on to the ice. When Yakov nodded, he began with a simple serpentine pattern. The only thing Yuuri could hear was the scratch of his skates over the ice. Yakov remained quiet for several long minutes, as Yuuri completed one figure, then another, and then moved on to more complicated patterns. Eventually, he spoke up to correct something - “Watch your free leg” or “Keep your edges clean”. Every time, Yuuri silently repeated the motion and corrected the error, and in return got “Better” and once, a reluctant, “Well done.”

By the time Yakov told him to stop, he found himself strangely calm.

“Spins next,” Yakov ordered, and pointed to the right half of the arena.

Yuuri nodded, and went to do as asked. There were more corrections. A demand to see how long he could hold a Biellmann position. A lecture on keeping his spins tighter to get in enough rotations for a level four spin. Yakov’s criticism was harsh and only rarely offset by an occasional word of praise, but at least his opinion of Yuuri’s skating hadn’t crossed the line into frustration and disappointment. Not yet, anyway.

Yakov gave him a moment to breathe and gulp down some water before asking him to go through his jumps. He landed his first triple toe, but wobbled on the landing. Repeat, twice. Next, the triple sal - underrotated. Triple flip. Better. Lutz. Axel. There was nothing for Yakov to compliment, and something ugly and shamed curdled in Yuuri’s stomach at the knowledge. His first day, with the rink to himself, no one but his new coach to watch him, and he still couldn’t perform.

He was pathetically grateful that Yakov didn’t bother commenting on it; his criticism remained steady and even, but he didn’t do anything beyond asking for Yuuri to repeat the jump even when he touched down on a landing two passes in a row. 

There was no clock on the walls of the rink, and even if there was, Yuuri wouldn’t have been able to read it without his glasses. It must have been a while since he’d stepped on to the ice, though; even with the brief moments of rest Yakov allowed him, his thighs were starting to burn and his ankles felt less stable than they had when they began. He landed one triple axle cleanly, but his knee wobbled on his next attempt, sending him crashing to the ice.

Yuuri braced himself for the landing and avoided any damage beyond what would likely be a spectacular bruise on his hip the next day. He gave himself a moment to gather his breath before he pushed himself to his feet and looked to Yakov, waiting for the critique of that particularly embarrassing landing.

Instead, Yakov said, “That’s enough for today.”

Yuuri stiffened and made a deliberate effort to smooth out his breathing, heavy from the intense exercise. “I can keep going,” he protested.

Yakov shook his head and made a cutting motion with one hand. “No. This is when your ice time will end on a normal day, and I’ve seen enough. Get some lunch. If you want to keep working after, start looking for music for next season.” His stern tone allowed for no argument.

“…Yes, Coach,” said Yuuri, deflating slightly.

Yakov grunted. “I’ll see you here tomorrow.”

Yuuri mumbled out an affirmative as he made his way towards the boards and tried not to be disappointed. He’d had worse practices with far more falls and yet he still felt like there was something more he could’ve done to prove he was worthy of Yakov’s consideration. Training here was a huge honor and he’d repaid it by making a mediocre first impression. Maybe Yakov hadn’t hated him, but he hadn’t been impressed, either.

Of course, that had been the case with all of his past instructors and coaches, but they’d let him prove that he was worth their time because he was willing to work harder than anyone else. Yuuri hadn’t continued on to seniors because he was better than Yuuko and Takeshi but because he’d sunk more hours into the ice than the both of them combined. If Yakov wouldn’t let him do that…

He knew the risks of overtraining and understood why Yakov would carefully monitor his skaters’ exercise habits, but if his one advantage was taken away, what else did he have?

Yuuri did his best to avoid thinking about that as he changed back into his runners and made his way back to the apartment. A sticky note on the fridge told him Rebecca was out, so there was no one to ask him why he kicked off his shoes and immediately burrowed under his covers to hide from the world.

 

* * *

 

 

The next few days blurred together in a whirlwind of relentless practice at the rink, stressing over music for the upcoming season, schoolwork for his correspondence courses, and awkward conversations with the people he’d left back in Hasetsu. They all asked the same things, variations on “How is St. Petersburg? And Victor? Are you getting along with your rinkmates? How’s the food?”

Yuuri didn’t quite want to admit that he hadn’t met anyone other than Rebecca - who he’d barely spoken to - or that he was actually kind of dreading his inevitable introduction to Victor. Within the past week he’d gone over dozens of scenarios for how it might go, ranging from ridiculous fantasies to soul-crushing (and probably more accurate) nightmare scenarios. Between that and his sheer exhaustion from the lingering jetlag and the new training regimen, he ended up responding primarily with brief texts. 

Then came the morning where Yakov told him Lilia Baranovskaya had agreed to take over his ballet training and possibly choreograph his programs. Oh, and their first session would be this afternoon.

Yuuri was becoming uncomfortably familiar with the somewhat nauseating mixture of elated joy and sheer terror that coursed through him at the thought.

Lilia Baranovskaya might be choreographing for him - _specifically_ for him!

But: He was going to take lessons from _Lilia Baranovskaya._

He was supposed to meet her in the dance studio after lunch, but as he did his best to choke down a sandwich he couldn’t taste through the jangling noise of his nerves, the door to the break room creaked open and the most revered ballerina in the world walked inside. Yuuri froze and stared at her in the middle of chewing a mouthful of bread, meat, and lettuce.

Her flinty green eyes bored into him and he automatically straightened out of his slouch. Oh  _no_. His mouth was still full. There were _crumbs_ on his shirt. Why did she have to decide to find him early?!

Somehow, he remembered to swallow his food, and managed not to gape. “Madame Baranovskaya, um—” Wait. Yuuri hadn’t checked the time since Yakov told him to get off the ice. “Am I - did I keep you waiting? I’m so sorry, I forgot to watch the time, just give me a moment and—”

She held up a hand and Yuuri snapped his mouth shut with an audible click.

“Don’t babble. It’s unattractive. Now stand and let me have a look at you.”

Between Yakov and Lilia, Yuuri was starting to get the sense that it would be better to keep his mouth shut unless he was asked a direct question. He hastily got out of his seat and tried to brush at least some of the breadcrumbs off of his clothing. Lilia stepped towards him and every click of her heels against the floor sent more tension racing up his spine.

Despite having a wide network of acquaintances and friends in the ballet world, Minako had only very rarely spoken of them, and there were only two people she had ever really praised: her first ballet instructor and Lilia Baranovskaya herself. Somehow, that was more intimidating than Lilia’s list of accomplishments. And it was a very long list.

She leaned down, and before Yuuri could think of how to ask her what was going on, she'd snatched up his ankle. When Yuuri instinctively tried to recoil, her iron grip held him in place. “E-excuse me--" he stuttered, extremely uncomfortable, but unwilling to risk offending her and loosing his chance at her choreography. Lilia paid him no mind, pulling him in to a graceful arabesque. 

Yuuri probably should have expected that she wouldn’t stop there. After all, any competitive figure skater could do a decent arabesque. She continued until his legs formed an almost perfectly vertical line to the ground, his inner thighs twinging slightly at the stretch.

When she finally released his ankle and stepped back, she said, "Acceptable.”

Yuuri slowly lowered his foot back to the ground, watching her warily. “Thanks?” he muttered as he took a step back.

Lilia sniffed delicately and opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, someone else interrupted.

“That means she thinks you’re amazing, so congratulations! The first time we met, she said I was a disaster who would never be fit to share a studio with a proper danseur.”

Yuuri whipped around to find the source of that all-too familiar voice - though surely, surely, it wasn’t--

Victor Nikoforov leaned casually against the doorway, devastatingly handsome even in a plain long-sleeved black shirt and gray sweatpants. Yuuri swallowed back a whimper. Why did Victor first have to see him sweaty and ruddy-cheeked and disgusting from practice.  _Why._

Victor smiled and winked. Yuuri suddenly had a lot more sympathy for that one reporter who had blushed on live TV when she’d interviewed him. “Yuuri, right?”

“Uh. Yes.” Yuuri somehow managed to get the words out without squeaking, but - really? After spending literal years daydreaming about this moment, that was the best he could do? Yuuri was an idiot, and he would really, really love for this to not be happening. 

“Hi!” Victor said cheerfully. “I’m Victor Nikiforov, one of your new rinkmates. I was hoping I’d get to meet you today. Yakov showed us some videos of you. That rendition of Bourne’s choreography was inspired.”

Yuuri was supposed to be replying with something, right? Dazed, he said, “I know.” Of course he knew who Victor was. He’d spent a full week freaking out about it after he realized what accepting Yakov’s offer would mean, and when he got back to the apartment later today he’d probably do it again because _Victor Nikoforov knows who I am,Victor Nikiforov wanted to meet me, Victor Nikiforov saw videos of me and he likes my dancing—_

That beautiful smile faded and Yuuri’s stomach clenched. If Victor had built up expectations so high that he’d actually been excited about meeting him, then of course he would be disappointed with the real thing.

Before Yuuri could figure out how to apologize and make an excuse to flee and avoid embarrassing himself further, Lilia said, “Victor. You aren’t supposed to be here.”

Victor’s head tilted a little to the right as he laughed. “What Yakov doesn’t know won’t hurt him!”

Lilia’s eyes narrowed dangerously and Yuuri found himself actually shuffling away from her. “He will know if you insist on distracting my student. Out.”

The two-time Olympian and holder of the current world records for short program and combined score pouted. Yuuri briefly wondered if this entire day was some kind of fever dream. “But _Madame—”_

“Out,” Lilia repeated firmly, this time emphasizing herself by jabbing a finger in the direction of the doorway.

With a deep sigh, Victor straightened and capitulated. “You wound me, Madame. Yuuri - I’ll see you around, hmm?” He smiled slightly before he turned on his heel and left as quickly as he’d came, leaving Yuuri staring dumbly at his back.

“Come,” Lilia said as she too began to walk out. “We have work to do.”

Right. He was here as Katsuki Yuuri, men’s singles skater for Japan, not Yuuri, Victor Nikiforov’s number one fanboy. He scrambled after Lilia and filed away the shape of Victor’s smile and the perfect swoop of his bangs for later examination. Training now. Freakout after.

 

* * *

 

 

 **Yuuri:**  help

 **Yuuko:** did you see him

 **Yuuri:** I MET him

 **Yuuko:** is he just as pretty in person

 **Yuuri:** worse

 **Yuuri:** he’s EVEN MORE BEAUTIFUL

 **Yuuri:** and NICE


	3. Chapter 3

Yakov was an internationally respected coach for a reason. He demanded the absolute best and Yuuri was given no extra breathing room for the fact that this would be his first year in seniors. Every step sequence and spin had to be a level four and every afternoon where Lilia wasn’t testing the limits of his flexibility and technique he worked on overall muscle conditioning and off-ice jump training. He barely had enough time to eat and complete his coursework before collapsing into his bed in the evening.

Yuuri was thankful for that, though - in the rare moments when he did enough spare time for his thoughts to drift to something other than skating, they inevitably spiraled downward. They latched on to the labels he couldn’t read that Rebecca brought home from the grocery store, all the ways that his rinkmates were far more accomplished skaters than he was, and Vicchan's absence.  

For nearly a decade, everything he’d done had been a tiny step closer to his dream of meeting Victor as an equal on the ice. He’d sacrificed things for it before: his grades, sometimes, his social life, his own comfort, when he practiced until his skates rubbed blisters into his feet. He’d done it gladly and never once regretted it. Moving to Russia should’ve been the same, but waking to the unfamiliar St. Petersburg streets in an apartment he shared with a stranger hollowed out something in his chest every morning.

Surely it would pass over time. Yuuri had no real reason to be unhappy; he was training with some of the most respected figures in the sport and Lilia Baranovskaya herself was going to choreograph his programs. His last season in juniors had been successful (even if he was moving up later than normal). The ache would leave him, or he would learn to fill it with the ice. Thankfully, it didn’t seem to be affecting his work in the rink - Yakov certainly would've let him know by now if it was. And loudly, at that. 

The dance studio, however, was another matter entirely.

Lilia had no interest in teaching him anything beyond basic corrections to his form. Her purpose, she declared, was to squeeze his heart until it bled with the things that drove him to dance. 

“Only then,” she had said, “will there be something worth choreographing.”

Calling her terrifying would be an understatement.  

Yuuri spent four hours a week dancing improvised routines under Lilia’s unforgiving assessment. She alternated between pieces from her own personal collection and Yuuri’s lengthy playlist of classical music. He couldn't help being intrigued with her creative process, but mostly he wished that she would just tell him what she was looking for so he could just give it to her. Part of him, though, was grateful for the time and (relative) privacy to drown his thoughts in the music and shape of his body. 

On his second Thursday at the rink, halfway through their session, just as Yuuri began to flow out of a facsimile of an Ina Bauer, Lilia pressed the pause button on the stereo. Yuuri froze and glanced over at her. Never before had she interrupted a song. If she had something to say, she waited until after it was over to pause the playlist and speak. 

“This song drives you to feel something. What is it?”

Yuuri stared. “Um—?”

“Don’t mumble.” 

He winced at the familiar reprimand and scrambled for a response. Yuuri admitted, “It - well, it’s by a Japanese composer, and I’ve always liked piano, and I guess it…makes me think of water. And the ocean back at Hasetsu.” 

He did not explain that the composer was one of Minako’s favorites. He did not tell Lilia how the rise and swell of the notes, the shifts between melancholy and hope, matched the uncertainty of his future and his place in Russia all too well. 

“Hmm.” Lilia stared at him for a long moment, perfectly manicured fingers tapping against her crossed arms. Yuuri only barely resisted the urge to shuffle his feet and lower his gaze like a cowed child. She’d been performing internationally since before Yuuri had been born - she would think him foolish if he admitted to homesickness. But in the end, all she said was, “This, I can work with.” 

That…was probably a good thing, right?

Lilia’s expression didn’t shift at all as she pressed something on the stereo and commanded, “Center of the room.”

Yuuri rushed to obey. Lilia turned the music back on and the song played again from the beginning. At first, he hesitated, but he’d been Minako’s student since he learned to walk. Sinking into the music and carrying the shape of the familiar melody in the curve of his arms and the point of his toes was easy. 

Once the final notes played, Yuuri looked to Lilia for some kind of reaction, and for a moment he thought he saw the faint curve of a smile tugging at her lips. He blinked, and the illusion vanished. 

“We are done for the day,” she declared. “Go home. Think about your other music. Tell that blustering man of a coach I’ve found your short program.”

Oh. Oh, wow, if she’d - this meant she didn’t think he was a waste of time. And…he should probably be doing something here, expressing the depth of his appreciation—

Yuuri bent at the waist and bowed, saying, “Thank you very much, Madame Baranovskaya!”

She muttered something in Russian before he straightened back up. “Then show me with your work,” she said, and shooed him away.

 

* * *

 

 

Yuuri realized after he scurried out that it would have been easier to just do his cool down stretches in the studio. But he was hardly going to turn around and say, _s_ _ o _r_ ry, Madame, I forgot to stretch so I came back, _ so he headed to the weight room instead. He knew that at least Rebecca would be done for the day, so maybe he’d be lucky enough to have the room to himself. 

He really should've known better. 

When Yuuri pushed the door open, he got an eyeful of Victor in a dark shirt, drenched with enough sweat that it clung to his shoulders as he stretched his arms. There was a faint flush to his pale cheeks and his hair was far messier than it had been this morning, but somehow he remained impossibly attractive. Yuuri kind of wanted to cry over how unfair it was. 

Apparently, he spent too much time staring, because after Victor relaxed out of the stretch he turned to Yuuri, a polite smile on his face. “Yuuri! Don’t hang out in the doorway until you cramp up. There’s plenty of room for both of us.” 

“Ah…yeah,” Yuuri said lamely. This. _This_ was why he’d done absolutely everything in his power to avoid crossing paths with Victor since he set foot in the rink. Every time Victor so much as looked at him, everything except _you’re the reason I started skating, your choreography is so beautiful, your jumps are amazing, and I don’t care what the internet says your hair is still gorgeous_ deserted his brain, leaving Yuuri stumbling through social interactions with even less grace than usual. 

He was Katsuki Yuuri, representing Japan, not Yuuri, the fanboy, he reminded himself. He was an athlete. He was here to train, not gawk at his idol. If he wanted Victor to respect him at all, he had to earn it. 

Eyes trained deliberately on the ground, Yuuri grabbed one of the spare gym mats Yakov kept around and spread it out over the floor a few feet from Victor’s position. He did his best to ignore Victor’s presence as he stretched out and only sort of succeeded. Yuuri managed not to look at him, but in a room this small, Victor’s breathing and the sound of his body shifting over his mat seemed impossibly loud. 

It was hard to know what to do when everything Yuuri wanted to say to this man was everything he knew he could never say if he wanted to be able to enter the rink every day with his head held high, so he opted to maintain the careful silence. It wasn’t like Victor had anything to say to him, so there was no reason to risk embarrassing himself by trying to initiate a conversation.

But Victor had made a career out of bringing something new to surprise the audience every time he performed, so Yuuri probably shouldn’t have been so shocked when Victor asked, “Have you gone out to see the city at all?”

Yuuri’s head jerked up. Victor casually wiped some sweat off his neck with a hand towel as he waited for a response. 

“No,” Yuuri mumbled. 

Victor frowned, tapping a finger against his bottom lip. “You move halfway around the world to a new country, and you haven’t done any sightseeing? What is it the Americans say…too much work and no fun is no good! Are you doing anything on Sunday?”

“…No?”

“Are you sure? That sounded like a question,” Victor teased.

Yuuri couldn’t fight down the heat racing to his cheeks. “I’m sure,” he muttered.

Victor clapped his hands together, his smile widening. “Great! That means you can come with me to the Mariinsky!” 

Yuuri blinked. Subtly pinched the inside of his elbow and - _ow._ Apparently this was, in fact, happening. “What. Why?” 

“My parents got me two tickets and they’ll hound me for ages if I don’t at least bring a friend. I already asked Georgi, but he has a date.” Yuuri probably would’ve said yes after he finished processing _Victor Nikiforov wants to take me to the ballet does this mean I’m going to meet his parents does this mean he wants to be friends,_ because he was hardly going to say no to the opportunity to see one of the best ballet companies in the world. Then Victor’s eyes  widened, the rest of his face softening into something almost vulnerable, and Yuuri was pretty sure he’d try to pull the stars from the sky if Victor asked. “Please? I’ll take care of everything - I’ll pick you up at Rebecca’s and pay for dinner.”

Yuuri was an idiot and a disaster of a human being. He was going to humiliate himself on Sunday in front of Victor and quite possibly Victor’s parents. But Victor had given him so much before he’d even known Yuuri existed, simply by performing and sharing his skating with the world, and between that and the look on his face in that moment, Yuuri didn't stand a chance. 

Yuuri crumpled like a wet paper towel. “…Sure?” he squeaked.

Victor beamed at him. “Great! I’ll pick you up at four. All you have to do is smile politely and look cute and my parents won’t bother you too much.”

Oh, hell, Yuuri was going to have to pull out his suit for this. And - look cute? What did that even _mean?_

Victor casually rolled up his gym mat as if he hadn’t just shattered every single expectation Yuuri had for their interaction and broken his brain in the process. “Thank you, really. See you tomorrow!” he called over his shoulder as he walked out. 

The door clicked shut behind Victor. Yuuri stared blankly at the far wall, something equally warm and terrifying dancing in his chest. 

He was alone now, and the soundproofing at the rink was very good, so there was nothing stopping him from flopping back on his mat and shouting, “What was that?!”

The ceiling, unfortunately, had no answers.

 

* * *

 

 

**Victor Nikiforov** _@v-nikiforov_

Finally convinced my new rinkmate @katsuyuuri to join the rest of us on twitter! 

**Katsuki Yuuri** _@katsuyuuri_

I’m not entirely sure what I’m supposed to do with this. But hello everyone!

 

* * *

 

 

The next two days were nerve-wracking for the sole reason that Victor seemed to have decided that they were, in fact, friends. Or maybe Yuuri’s childhood dreams were overwriting his common sense. Friendly co-workers?

Whatever they were, it meant that Victor went out of his way to greet Yuuri every morning and pull him into an actual conversation instead of letting him get away with a mumbled reply before they took to their separate sections of the ice. Yuuri, frankly, had no idea what was going on. 

He understood why Victor wanted someone to accompany him on Sunday; Yuuri remembered all too well his parents’ worried frowns when he deflected their questions about his nonexistent school friends. So if he wasn’t dating someone, of course he would ask a friend or rinkmate. The problem was how Victor had jumped from that to asking Yuuri, of all people. He’d mentioned talking to Georgi about it first, but he was just one person. What about Rebecca? They got along pretty well. And surely he had friends from outside the rink. Was he bored? Or maybe Victor was just curious about Yakov’s newest skater. Both, probably. But - it was a little weird to trade out people and friends like music choices and choreography, wasn’t it?

Despite worrying about it for most of Sunday afternoon as he tried to get ready, Yuuri couldn’t manage to puzzle out an explanation that made sense. Worse, he had no idea what he was going to wear. 

Yuuri hastily made his way towards their shared bathroom after changing his shirt for the fourth time. Was a suit and tie too formal? Should he do something with his hair? What exactly had Victor meant when he told him to look cute? 

He shut the door behind him and looked at his reflection in the large mirror mounted on the wall behind the sink. Black suit, white shirt, the sky blue tie his mom bought for him for his sixteenth birthday. Chubby cheeks, messy black hair, the same style of glasses he’d been wearing since third grade - nothing remarkable.

“Are you okay?”

Yuuri startled and choked down a shriek as Rebecca’s voice interrupted his worrying. When had she opened the door? When had she even looked up from the book she’d been reading all afternoon?

“Yuuri?”

“Um.” Yuuri opened his mouth. Closed it. “Hi?” he said, and immediately wanted to die. “That’s - I mean - of course I’m fine, why do you ask?”

Rebecca stared at him for a moment, then said uncertainly, “…You’ve taken two showers today and changed your outfit, like, five times this afternoon?”

Yuuri winced. This was fairly normal for him before going out, really, but he’d never had to worry about how people outside of his family would react to it. They’d grown used to his obsessive patterns over the years, even when they couldn’t understand it. Rebecca probably just thought he was crazy. He looked down at the tiled floor and fidgeted with the cuffs of his shirt. 

An awkward pause. Then, Rebecca continued, “Is this about your thing with Victor tonight? You really don’t need to worry about it, you know, he does this with everyone, mostly. I mean - it’s not always the ballet, and his parents don’t always attend as well, but he gets invited to events all the time. It’s weird if he goes alone too often, so he just…asks people. And you’re rinkmates now. He wants to get along with you. You like ballet, right? Think of it like a peace offering.”

A peace offering. The idea left a sour taste in Yuuri’s mouth. He didn’t need a _bribe_ to get along with Victor. Yuuri already liked him. Admired him. Skating at the same rink as him was an honor, and seeing the dedication he brought to every ice session only increased Yuuri’s respect for him. Though Yuuri tried to be professional, he’d done a terrible job of hiding that. Victor (hopefully) hadn’t quite realized quite how deep Yuuri’s admiration ran, but…maybe it wasn’t a peace offering, as Rebecca had put it, so much as Victor doing a nice thing for a fan. His numerous interactions with his fanbase were well-documented and he’d developed something of a reputation for courteousness. 

Victor had given him so much before he’d even known Yuuri had existed, and now he was being kind just because he was a good person and Yuuri happened to be his rinkmate. He wanted to give something back, but he had nothing Victor would want, and as it was he couldn’t even figure out how to dress himself. 

The idea of verbalizing any of that was mortifying, but Yuuri had to give Rebecca something, if only so she would leave him alone. “I just don’t know what to wear,” he said weakly. 

Rebecca blinked, then sighed heavily. “You’re fine,” she said, waving one of her hands dismissively. “Maybe get rid of the tie and comb your hair, but I promise Victor isn’t going to care.” 

Yuuri tugged at his tie. It was kind of tight. Did it make him look like he was trying too hard? Slowly, he nodded, and undid the knot with fumbling fingers.

“Relax. Have some fun,” Rebecca continued, like it really was that simple.

Yuuri forced himself to smile and let out a strained chuckle. Relax. As if. But that wasn’t her fault, and he’d already worried her enough. “Yeah,” he said quietly, dropping his crumpled tie on the counter next to the sink.

She squinted at him for a moment longer before exhaling and taking a step back from the doorway. “Just text me if you’re going to be late so I know I don’t have to call Yakov or something. Be glad you weren’t here for the last time Victor and Giacometti went out clubbing after a competition without telling anybody. The yelling didn’t stop for a week.” 

He mumbled out something that was probably a yes at her back as she left. Yuuri waited a couple moments before pushing the door shut and looking back at the mirror. If anything, without the tie, he looked even more disheveled than before. There wasn’t much time left, though, so - priorities. He still had to do something about his hair. 

Yuuri had only just finished combing his hair back with a bit of gel when the doorbell rang. Crap. He thought he had more time. Even with the door shut, he could make out the sound of muffled voices. One was obviously Rebecca, and he was pretty sure the other was Victor’s. Yuuri glanced at his reflection just long enough to confirm that his hair was somewhat respectable before taking a deep breath, opening the door, and stepping out into the hallway.

Right. Okay. He could do this. It was just dinner. He’d done dinner before. Formal dinners with important people, even. He’d had several with the Mizuno representatives for his ongoing sponsorship only a few months ago. This was fine.

Slowly, he crept out of the hallway and into the main room of the apartment. 

“—triple axel,” Rebecca finished as Yuuri entered. The front door was shut; Victor sat in an armchair, his back to Yuuri, while Rebecca stood across from him, holding Biellmann in her arms.

“You’ll get it this season - you almost had it perfect at Worlds,” Victor said. 

Rebecca let out a noncommittal hum, looking over Victor’s shoulder instead of meeting his eyes. “Oh, Yuuri! There you are.”

Victor twisted his neck to glance back at Yuuri, then bounced out of the chair with a smile. “Ready?” he asked. 

“Um. Yes,” Yuuri mumbled, and tried his best not to think about what he looked like in his department-store suit next to Victor, who would’ve been right at home at an Armani photo shoot with his dove gray vest and pale pink shirt. 

“Great!” Victor cheered, jingling his keys in one hand. “I brought my car.”

Yuuri nodded, gnawing at the inside of his cheek to prevent something embarrassing from spilling out. 

Rolling her eyes, Rebecca set her cat on the floor before meandering over to the kitchenette. “Have fun, you two. Now get out of here so I can start making dinner without feeling guilty about breaking my diet in front of my rinkmates."

“Uh - yes!” Yuuri said immediately, straightening his spine and checking his pockets for his phone and keys, and - okay. He hadn’t forgotten anything. 

Victor was already halfway down the hall when Yuuri fished his keys out of his pants pockets and locked the door. He scrambled to catch up with his older rinkmate.

“Come on, we don’t want to be late, hm?” Victor said. He gave Yuuri’s shoulder a friendly squeeze as he brushed past him. 

Yuuri stopped breathing for a moment. It wasn’t Yakov’s demanding training schedule that was going to kill him, it was going to be Victor _goddamn_ Nikiforov and his _friendliness._

This was terrible for his stress levels, but he couldn’t imagine giving it up. This was what he wanted, right? What he’d spent nearly a decade imagining? He couldn’t run away from it now that he was just starting to take hold of his dreams, even if the reality was as terrifying as it was exciting. Yuuri forced himself to exhale, squared his shoulders, and followed Victor towards the elevators.

Thankfully, Victor didn’t try to draw him into an awkward conversation as he led them down to his car and then drove to the Mariinsky. It didn’t stop Yuuri from picking nervously at the hem of his jacket sleeve, but that was at least slightly less mortifying that trying to stutter through another conversation with Victor. Why had he agreed to this, again?

“Have you ever seen a performance of Swan Lake, Yuuri?” Victor asked, his gaze slipping from the road to Yuuri as they waited for the light to turn green. 

“No. I - ah - I went to the Tokyo Ballet once with Minako-sensei, but it was a different performance.”

A teasing smirk crossed Victor’s face. “In that case, I’m sorry for ruining you for any other company’s show. We Russians take our ballet very seriously. It’s quite beautiful.” 

Right. That was why. Because Victor spoke like he actually cared about Yuuri’s opinion, like he was an equal rather than just another average skater making his senior debut. It was exactly what Yuuri had dared to hope for in some of his wilder daydreams, and even these brief moments were intoxicating. 

Sometimes, Yuuri couldn’t help but think about what it would be like to earn that - to be able to meet Victor on the same level, both on the ice and off. In a sudden burst of daring, he said, “It’ll have to be! I’m not that easy to impress, you know. Minako-sensei won a Benoise de  la danse before she came back to Hasetsu, and she made sure to hold all her students to those standards.”

As soon as he finished speaking, he froze. What the hell had just come out of his mouth? _Why._ Why was he like this. 

But Victor just tilted his head back and laughed. “I’m sure - they’ll do their best,” he said between chuckles. Even after his laughter faded, the faint trace of a smile remained, so maybe the idiocy that tumbled out of Yuuri’s mouth hadn’t been too bad.

With a handful of stories from the time he spent learning under Lilia Baranovskaya as a child, Victor coaxed Yuuri into sharing more of his own history with ballet. Somehow, that led to a very passionate discussion about the importance of symbolism in dance and figure skating costumes. Yuuri almost wished he was still in Juniors so he could tell that uppity American (again) that Victor deserved every point of PCS the judges gave him. No one who put that much thought into the meaning of his costumes and routines deserved a poor interpretation score. 

Victor parked his car about a block from the theater just as the minute hand on Yuuri’s watch hit the half hour mark. He really hoped they weren’t going to be late. They still had half an hour, but what if their tickets were at will call? Yuuri hadn’t thought to ask if Victor had already printed them out or not. And - oh no, what would Victor’s _parents_ think if they were late? 

His worrying meant that Victor had enough time to get out of the car first and then loop around to the passenger side and actually open the door for Yuuri. Why did he have to be so _nice?_ Yuuri hoped he wasn’t blushing. He probably was. Then Victor winked at him as he stepped out of the car, and for a moment he thought he was going to pass out on the spot. 

Yuuri bit down on the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. This was not the time for a freak out. Maybe after he returned to the privacy of his room he could hyperventilate in peace, but not until then. 

Victor led the way to the beautiful wooden doors, propped open for the crowd slowly filtering inside. Victor retrieved two tickets from his pocket and flashed them at the usher, who scanned them with a polite smile and provided directions to their seats.  

“Mama and Papa will already be there,” Victor said quietly. “I can’t remember the last time they were less than an hour early for a performance. They like to socialize. These are box seats, so we probably aren’t the only people they invited.” 

Great. More people to potentially embarrass himself in front of. Yuuri nodded and resolutely ignored his queasy stomach. Victor had already moved on, locating the stairs and making his way to their assigned seats with speed that could only come with familiarity. He’d been here before, probably several times. 

When he stepped on to the balcony just behind Victor, he froze and took a moment just to look at the interior of the theater. It was absolutely gorgeous, the ceiling decorated with intricate designs and gold leaf. The New National Theater in Tokyo was striking in its own way, but the design was very modern and minimalist. This was what Yuuri had imagined at ten, before he’d begun to skate in earnest and dedicated himself to the ice instead of the barre. 

“Yuuri?” Victor called. 

Yuuri startled before hurrying to where Victor stood by the middle row. As he approached, the other three people in the box got to their feet. He immediately recognized the handsome older couple as Victor’s parents from one of the Nikiforov family photos in an old Russian magazine Yuuri had paid to have shipped to Hasetsu with the prize money from one of his junior competitions. 

Victor’s mother smiled and extended a hand toward him. Yuuri stared for a moment before he gave himself a mental kick and shook it. She had a firm grip. “Alyona Ivanovna. You must be Yuuri Katsuki, yes? It’s been so long since Yakov has taken on a new student. I look forward to your performance this season,” she said with a smile. 

Oh god, did Victor’s parents watch more than just their son’s competitions? Was she just being polite or did they really keep an eye on all of his rinkmates?

His father, on the other hand, just offered a stiff nod, then introduced himself as, “Evengi Vladmirovich.” 

On instinct, Yuuri sketched out a hasty bow. Hopefully they didn’t think he was an idiot.

Someone let out a bright laugh. Yuuri’s gaze jerked over to the plump woman from the middle row. “You’re adorable. I’m Rose McGrady, I work with Evengi, and sometimes with Victor.”

He stuttered out, “Um - yes, I’m Yuuri Katsuki. Which you already know.” This was it. This was how he died. Yuuri’s ears felt hot. His face probably looked like a tomato. 

“Papa is an instructor at the Saint Petersburg Conservatory, and Rose used to be a student. She composed the music I used for my free last season as part of her thesis,” Victor explained. 

Yuuri looked back at Rose with renewed interest. Victor’s programs the previous season had been unexpected, to say the least, even by his standards. He’d returned to the competitive skating scene just in time for the GPF with his signature long hair cut off and more traditionally masculine costumes than he’d ever worn before. The music for his skates still drew from classical roots, but they’d been loud and energetic where before he’d tended towards softer, subtler choices. Last season had also marked the first time Victor had commissioned his own music. 

At seventeen, Victor had decided he wouldn’t trust anyone else to breathe life into the stories he envisioned with their choreography. Yuuri couldn’t deny he was curious about the woman he’d decided was worthy of composing his music. 

“Oh, wow,” Yuuri said, “that’s - impressive. Are you working together again this season?”

Beside him, Victor laughed. “Even my rinkmates don’t get spoilers yet!” 

Rose grinned and mimed zipping her lips shut. “Sorry, Yuuri.”

Yuuri shook his head violently. “No, no! I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. Never mind.” 

“Don’t feel too put out. Victor won’t even tell us what his plans are,” Alyona said.

“You deserve a surprise as much as the rest of the world, Mama,” Victor replied. 

Alyona’s lips quirked up into a small smile, “Ah, my Vitya, charming as always.” 

Matching her expression, Victor said, “I learned from the best.”

The door to the box creaked open behind them and Evengi said something with far to many consonants and not enough vowels for Yuuri to parse. A greeting, probably, given the sharply dressed older couple entering the box. He was starting to really regret the decision to wait until fall to begin his Russian course at the university. 

“Dmitri! Good to see you. This is Rose McGrady, a former student - I believe you met at the gala - my son, Victor, who I suppose needs to introduction after Vancouver, and Yuuri Katsuki, who trains at the same rink.” Evengi gestured at Rose, Yuuri, and then Victor as he introduced them. “You know my lovely wife, of course. Victor, this is Dmitri Alexandrovich Soloviev and his wife, Ekaterina Borisovna. They’re on the board of a Moscow-based company developing a new program for digital music composition and editing. They’ve been generous enough to let some Conservatory students test out their product.”

Yuuri had thought that this was going to be a family outing, but he was starting to get the impression that it was more of a business meeting. He had no idea how a music editing program could lead to a sponsorship for a figure skater, but Evengi’s wording was very similar to things Minako had said during their meetings with Mizuno. 

He peered over at Victor from the corner of his eye just in time to catch a flash of emotion in his expression before it vanished beneath a polite smile. 

“A pleasure,” Victor said. “I am always happy to meet fellow appreciators of music.”

Dmitri nodded, then responded with something in Russian, which kicked off a conversation that everybody but Yuuri could contribute to. Rose had been sitting in the middle, Victor’s parents in the front, and they wouldn’t give business associates the two seats in the back, so Yuuri had a decent guess as to where he was supposed to sit for the performance  when he backed away. Better to avoid the conversation entirely than stare awkwardly as he failed to comprehend more than two words in as many minutes. 

Eventually, the lights dimmed, and the others dispersed. Dmitri and Ekaterina took the two free middle seats, as he’d expected, but Victor left the single open seat in the front row empty to sit next to Yuuri instead. 

“Sorry about that,” he murmured. 

Yuuri shrugged. “I’m the one in a foreign country.”

Victor opened his mouth to respond, but then the orchestra began to play, cutting him off. Yuuri didn’t push. Even if the evening continued to be unbearably awkward, Yuuri intended to enjoy the ballet. 

 

* * *

 

 

It was a beautiful production. To Yuuri’s amateur eye, everything seemed near flawless - the music, the costuming, the dancers and choreography. Yuuri had always been drawn to the core that ballet and figure skating shared: the art of telling stories without words, with only grace and music to shape ideas for the audience. Much like Victor’s performances, the Mariinsky’s production had him itching to return to the rink and carve a tale of his own into the ice.

The ballet ended; the lights returned. They said their goodbyes to Rose and the Solovievs and Victor ushered him out the door while his parents were still talking to the others they’d invited.

“I _am_ sorry,” Victor said as they reached the lobby, a faint frown on his face. “I didn’t know Papa was bringing a business acquaintance, but I should have guessed. They do like to show me off.”

Yuuri chewed on the inside of his cheek. This reaction to his parents’ guests, Evengi’s emphasis on Victor’s status as the reigning Olympic champion, the absence of any sort of inquiries into how he’d been - the whole thing had felt more like a business transaction than an evening out with family and friends. Yuuri’s parents had asked him to mention their onsen on the rare occasion he sat down for an interview, and he did his best to comply, but…it had been a brief comment, never the sole point of a conversation. 

Of course, he knew nothing about Victor’s family. Maybe this was the only way they could make their schedule work. Maybe this was just how they were trying to help; Victor was certainly famous, especially now, but more sponsorships and endorsement deals meant more money and more of a cushion when he inevitably had to retire. Not even Victor Nikiforov could outrun the demands of figure skating and the toll it took on his body. 

Victor looked away for a moment before turning back to him with the smile that Yuuri was starting to suspect was faker than his sister’s hair dye. “It’ll just be the four of us at dinner, so at least you didn’t have to put up with them for long, hm? And the ballet was nice. Did it live up to your standards?”

In the end, no matter how uneasy the brief interaction between Victor and his parents had made him, it wasn’t any of his business. So he let it go. “Oh, yes! It was amazing to see the thirty two fouettes in person—” 

Victor nodded eagerly. “Yes! What stamina that requires,” he said, and from there the conversation flowed easily as they returned to Victor’s car and drove to the restaurant. Yuuri found himself forgetting that he was talking to _the_ Victor Nikiforov a few times before the shine of his platinum hair brought him crashing down to reality. He was just so easy to talk to; smart and insightful, but quick to laugh or encourage Yuuri to finish voicing an idea. 

“And if you like ballet, you’ll love the decor here,” Victor added while he parked. Yuuri fumbled with his seatbelt and made sure to get out of the car before Victor had time to open his door like some valet. 

“This way,” Victor said, then made his way around the corner to the front of the restaurant. He entered with a smile prepared for the hostess while Yuuri stood back, half-hidden behind his very nicely muscled shoulders. 

The hostess glanced at Yuuri for a second before she said in accented English, “Hello, welcome to the Repa. How can I help you?”

“We have reservations under Nikiforov, for four,” Victor answered immediately. “The rest of our party might not be here yet.” 

The hostess looked down and tapped at something hidden in her desk before looking back up at Victor. “Yes, I see. This way, please. We’ll show the others to your table when they get here.”

“Spasibo,” said Victor.

The hostess replied with something else in Russian before walking to the back of the dining hall, clearly expecting Yuuri and Victor to follow. The restaurant was indeed beautifully decorated - tables so polished they shined under the lighting, padded dining chairs, and a mural in each room that were based on scenes or symbols from different ballets. The hostess eventually stopped in front of a table bracketed between a window overlooking the streets and a painting of a ballet corps in blue dresses, swans peeking out between the dancers. She set four menus down on the table and then handed a fifth to Victor. 

“Our drinks menu,” she explained. “I’ll give you some time to look over our offerings and for the rest of your party to get here. Please get the attention of a server if you need anything at all.” 

Yuuri tried to mirror her polite smile but could only be relieved when she quickly excused herself. 

“Do you drink?” Victor asked, looking at Yuuri over the top of the menu he’d accepted from the hostess.

“Oh, um - no, I try not to. I get a little wild,” Yuuri laughed nervously. He’d tried alcohol a grand total of once, when Nishigori had somehow gotten his hands on three six-packs of beer to share between himself, Yuuko, and Yuuri. Embarrassing photos of his drunken dancing hidden on Yuuko’s phone were one thing, but he was _not_ going to get plastered in front of Victor and his parents. 

Victor’s eyebrows crept up his forehead. “Hm. Maybe another day, then,” he said, and smirked when Yuuri’s eyes widened in alarm. 

What was that supposed to mean?! 

Yuuri hunched in on himself and snatched up one of the menus to avoid looking Victor in the eye. Thankfully, the menu was in both Russian and English, so hopefully Victor wouldn’t call him out on his obvious avoidance tactics. 

Though he’d traveled internationally for several years on the junior circuit, Yuuri had never actually been to Russia for a competition, so much of the menu was entirely foreign. The descriptions in tiny font below each entree only helped so much.  He was trying to puzzle out which of the two pelmini options would be the safest when multiple sets of footsteps signaled people approaching their table. Yuuri looked up just as Alyona and Evengi took their seats and the hostess retreated back to the front of the restaurant. 

“So I suppose you’ve been productive, Papa, if you’re wooing a new business contact,” Victor said in lieu of any kind of greeting. “Are things at the Conservatory going well?”

Yuuri tensed, but Evengi just nodded as he picked up a menu. “Very well. A bit of a struggle to convince everyone that it is time to modernize, however. Dmitri has been very helpful.” 

“Enough about business, Zhenya,” Alyona said, lightly smacking the back of her husband’s hand. “Victor, what did you think? It’s been so long since the Mariinsky performed the original ending to Swan Lake. I think part of me was afraid they had forgotten it.” 

Yuuri blinked. “They usually perform a different ending?”

Alyona flicked her fingers dismissively. “Politics. They changed the ending to a contrived happily ever after during the communist revolution - Siegfried vanquished the sorcerer and ruined one of the best and most beautiful romantic tragedies in history.”

Yuuri wrinkled his nose as he tried to imagine it. He couldn't. Dancing a happy ending to the music for the finale…he almost pities the dancers that had to do it. How do you keep your artistic integrity while following choreography completely opposing the music that’s supposed to guide the performance in the first place?

“There have been rumors that the Mariinsky was going to change their performance of Swan Lake for a while,” Victor added. “Personally, I was hoping they were going to use Bourne’s choreography.”

“Bah. We don’t need _Americans_ to show us how ballet is done,” Evengi grumbled. 

Victor waited until Evengi looked down at his menu to roll his eyes. Yuuri ducked his head to hide the smile tugging at his mouth. 

* * *

 

 

**Victor Nikiforov** _@v-nikiforov_

Vkusno! Introducing @katsuyuuri to Russian cuisine after a beautiful performance of Swan Lake at the #mariinsky

[image description: a candid photo of Yuuri, sitting at a restaurant table, fork in his mouth.]

**To the victor goes the gold** _@vikvicdiscourse_

ohmygod he’s so cute how have I not seen him before

**Olympic victor(y)** _@quadsalchows_

@vikvicdiscourse Right?! I’ve been trying to find more info about him but there’s almost nothing in english :(

**knife shoes** _@axeltotheknee_

@vikvicdiscourse @quadsalchows Ice Network did a short interview with Katsuki after his JWC gold and some of his performances are on youtube but that’s all I can find rn. Fingers crossed for more from him next season.

 

* * *

 

 

Yuuri’s next session with Lilia fell on the following Wednesday. She greeted him with a sharp nod and then, “I have chosen your free skate music.” Before he could even think about opening his mouth to say something, she pressed a button on the small remote in her hand and music began to play.

Within moments Yuuri identified it as the climax of Stravinsky’s Firebird Suite. It started off quietly but quickly burst into the wildfire it was supposed to portray with a triumphant crescendo. Yuuri tried to imagine skating to it and found that he couldn’t. The song he and Lilia had picked for his short program was…comfortable. Soft, delicate, and beautiful in a somewhat understated way. But this didn’t just ask for attention, it _demanded_ it. Yuuri had never put on a performance like that before. He didn’t even know if he could. 

On the other hand, Lilia Baranovskaya had picked it. He couldn’t just say he disagreed with the most accomplished ballerina of the past three generations to her face. 

Unfortunately, once the music ended, Lilia looked to him and asked, “Well?” 

Yuuri was probably supposed to say something here. Some incredible artistic insight that would prove him worthy of her time. But what tumbled out of his mouth was, “It’s very…bold.” 

Wow. That was terrible, even by his standards. 

Lilia snorted. “Bold, yes, I suppose that is a way to look at it. But the connection - do you see the story?”

Yuuri kept his mouth shut rather than admitting he didn’t. 

“Growth. Rebirth. If the short program is the quiet beginnings, this will be the triumph. Two kinds of music, two kinds of beauty - two kinds of victory. You must be both in order to win. Understand?”

He didn’t. He nodded anyway. 

Lilia saw right through him. “Hmph. You do not, not yet. But you will. Or you will fail.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! The comments on Swan Lake actually have some basis in real life history that I found fascinating, which you can read more about [here.](https://hazlitt.net/feature/portentous-composition-swan-lakes-place-soviet-politics)  
> Also, please feel free to say hi on [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/murmuredlullaby)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! It's me again, Back On My Bullshit. Hope you've enjoyed your stay. I decided to say 'fuck it' and publish this first chapter - the fic is not complete, but I have about 17k written out and that should be about a third of the total word count, if my estimates are right. Fingers crossed and all that. Originally this was going to be for the Live Love YOI Bang but uh....life got in the way. Sorry about that. 
> 
> Title is from the song Hidden Away by Josh Groban, who I spent a lot of time listening to while outlining this.


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